


Just Before the Four

by FletcherHonorama



Series: the Circle, Updated [1]
Category: Emelan - Tamora Pierce
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-07-24
Packaged: 2018-02-10 05:22:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,773
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2012565
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FletcherHonorama/pseuds/FletcherHonorama
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rosethorn and Lark are living their lives when they get a heads-up from Niko... Slice of life / things are about to change style fic</p><p>Takes place directly before my main Emelan story but neither is required for the other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Before the Four

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, this is for femslash week which I saw mentioned on tumblr. I'm not really a writer of romantic relationships, slashy or otherwise, but I wanted to write for these two anyway because I love them and Emelan – if I can do it for anyone I can do it for these two! Written without a beta or a whole lot of revision so if there's anything weird please let me know.

It was a beautiful morning: mid-September, coolish, comfortable, promising a day of warm sun and clear air. On mornings like these, out in the garden as the sun rose, Rosethorn could almost get her head around the concept of _joie de vivre_. Almost. It peeped and crackled around the edges of her consciousness - _are you happy? are you happy? how about now? happy yet? will you ever be?_

Crane used to make fun of her for watering her garden by hand; he had even once gone so far as booking some numpties from town to quote her for installation of automatic sprinklers. She’d torn shreds off him the next time they’d met, and rightly so. That had led to one of their longest ever dry spells.

Instead of thinking about a man like Crane on a morning like this, Rosethorn gave her young conebushes a spattering of water from the hose and a silent assurance that the sun was on its way. She passed under the old lacebark kurrajong, where the ground was cool and damp. The old tree needed no guidance, no watering, no conversation; it simply waited for the sun to strengthen, for its next drink, for the changing of the seasons.

Rosethorn snorted. “Automatic sprinklers, my foot.”

She turned back towards the house, all her natives slowly waking up behind her. Between Rosethorn and the house, more green things were still eagerly absorbing their morning’s water. These plants, grown purely to be eaten, were so much less suited to this part of the world, often relying entirely on human beings - on Rosethorn - for their survival. She walked past them, heartened by their appreciation and their joy.

Lark was waiting for Rosethorn by the house, barefoot and dishevelled: a goddess in shorts and old t-shirt if Rosethorn had ever seen one. “Good morning,” she called out through a yawn.

Lark would have said good morning just as sincerely had it been hailing and blowing gale-force winds with the temperature below zero. Rosethorn kissed her good morning quickly on her way to turning off the hose at the tap. Then, since she was full of _joie de vivre_ today, when she came back to the door she said, “Good morning, love,” and gave Lark a real kiss, with lips and hands and all her heart.

“We have an email from Niko,” Lark said when they stepped inside. She walked around the little round table in the kitchen to flip the kettle on and took two mugs off the drying rack. Rosethorn watched, as entranced by her easy grace as she had been the first time the two of them had met. Her grace, and her legs.

When Lark looked back to Rosethorn and smiled, amused and flattered, Rosethorn remembered herself. “Another apology for missing a meeting, I suppose?”

“Have a look.”

Lark’s tablet was out on the kitchen counter. Rosethorn thought to make herself useful and took the milk out of the fridge before turning on the screen and reading Niko’s email.

_Hello Lark (and Rosethorn, if you’re reading),_

_I apologise for the lengthy break in correspondence; it has been a difficult year in a variety of ways, very few of which I expect will interest the two of you. I hope you are both well and haven’t yet been devoured by kangaroos or wombats or such creatures. Bunyips?_

_My news is this: in the last month or so I have been inundated with unusually potent dreams which have merited serious attention and interpretation. I am making some progress, enough to posit that I am being warned of a child at risk of falling between the gaps of both magical education and social security._

_It is far from a certainty, but there could well be another young mage who will need the two of you in the near future. I trust you are still willing and able to take a child into your care._

_I will keep you apprised of my progress._

_Sincerely,_

_Niko_

“It’s been a while,” Lark said. Rosethorn knew it was a nudge for her to react, and to speak her reaction out loud. 

Now wasn’t the time for honest reactions, not when immediately Rosethorn’s stomach had plummeted along with the blurring of her future. That was nothing to do with Niko, or any children, or Lark. It was her instinctive reaction to change - any change.

She needed time, time to adjust to the idea of it. How well she was able to do that would tell Rosethorn whether it was a good idea or not.

“It has,” she agreed, to fill in the time. “Years.”

Lark busied herself with tea and toast. Rosethorn walked from the kitchen into the main room and over to the tall windows overlooking her garden. 

Raising children, protecting and teaching them, was a duty Rosethorn welcomed, but still not one she enjoyed. She wouldn’t refuse Niko, of course she wouldn’t. But she would not accept the responsibility of it until she found her own peace with the idea. Not until she could look Lark in the eye and mean every word when she said she wanted them to do it.

“It’s a while off yet,” Lark said from nearby. Rosethorn nodded. Lark came up behind her and wrapped her arms around the shorter woman, clasping all their hands together at Rosethorn’s stomach. Rosethorn leaned her head back against Lark’s shoulder and matched her breathing with Lark’s.

“I’m not so selfish as to turn away a child in need,” Rosethorn said, and saying it was the last step in knowing it was true.

“I know,” Lark murmured right into her ear. She kissed Rosethorn lightly on the cheek and withdrew, back to the kitchen, back to breakfast, another day to live through. Rosethorn turned and watched her: long brown legs and arms, soft feet, swaying hips. She knew she’d never quite get over this feeling that she must have cheated somehow to get here, that she’d done nothing, nothing at all, to deserve a woman like Lark.

There was no-one better for a child to come home to than Lark. That was what Rosethorn could give them.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Lark drove back home from the first cricket training of the season feeling happily exhausted. She only kept up with a couple of the women on the team during the winter; it had been lovely catching up with the others, rejuvenating the in-jokes and settling into the old routine again.

It wasn’t one of the more intense training sessions they’d ever had, not with so much catching up to do, but even with the very little running and bowling Lark had done she was anticipating plenty of stiff joints and aching muscles the next day.

As the perfect straightness of the road out of Wangaratta started to curve and head uphill Lark started thinking longingly about dinner. It wouldn’t be on the table when she got home, of course. Rosie had the same kind of attitude towards meals that she had towards people: she’d skip them entirely if she could get away with it. She didn’t have a problem with cooking; she just never quite got around to it on her own.

Pulling in around the side of the house, Lark felt a sudden pang. She often felt it when she had been away from Rosethorn, and thinking about her. How lucky she was, that this woman, this gruff solitary practical woman with the quick mind and fierce heart, had found a way to love Lark. That Rosie, famously intransigent Rosie, never hesitated to make concessions to ensure that they would always fit together. Even letting Lark call her Rosie in public was an everlasting miracle.

Lark lifted her cricket bag off the back seat and slung it over her shoulder; with her other hand she picked up the laundry bag with Lauren’s son’s torn work shirt and her daughter’s jeans that needed patches.

Even though the sun had barely set, Rosethorn was already indoors in the kitchen. And, even more shockingly, she was sitting at her ancient barely-used laptop, chin propped up with one hand and eyes sliding slowly across the screen.

“Have a look at this,” she said, pushing the computer sideways a little so Lark could read it.

Lark was far too tall to sit in Rosethorn’s lap, but she tried it anyway just to hear Rosie’s snort of laughter, and for the sheer joy of her touch. She got up again quickly, before Rosethorn could rise and offer her the seat. To keep the woman sitting and comfortable Lark rested her chin on one of Rosie’s shoulders and draped one arm over the other, breathing her in.

The first email read:

_Sorry for the quick email - it might be two. I’m fairly certain there are two separate children in my dreams._

_N._

The second, sent a little after an hour after the first, was just:

_Sorry actually, three. Two or three._

_N._

“Three,” Lark said calmly. _Three!_ she exclaimed to herself. Three children was a house full, a family full. It may well not come to pass, but she enjoyed the thought of it none the less.

“What’s our upper limit?” Rosethorn asked dryly. “Fifteen? Twenty?”

Lark laughed. “Twenty might be stretching it just a little.”

Rosethorn shook her head. 

Lark leaned forwards, taking the mouse from Rosethorn and scrolling down a little. Rosethorn had already replied to Niko:

_We don't need updates this frequently._

Lark smiled, but she was thinking again about how long it had been since they’d fostered a child, and how well Rosethorn had been doing for the past year or so. “You don’t mind three, do you Rosie?”

“Mind? Of course not. Imagine all the extra work that’ll get done around the house. Just think how clean the underneath of the cars will stay. All the weeds their nimble little fingers will be able to get to.”

Lark smiled. Rosethorn might not agree with her, but it was her firm belief that children were good for Rosethorn, and that Rosethorn was good for children. Just look at how good she was for Lark.

Sore muscles meant nothing; her hope for foster children to love and teach and help to grow was starting to gnaw at Lark’s heart. What if, after all this, they didn’t come? “Still no timeframe, I see,” she said.

“I’ve gone through the house; it’s still reasonably childproof. Two bedrooms are ready, and the other one won’t take long to get ready. All our paperwork is still in order with the Department of Human Services. If they’re coming, we’re ready for them.”

That was the difference. Lark’s worst case scenario was having her heart set to welcome children into their lives and having it not happen; for Rosethorn, the worst thing would be if they did come and she wasn’t a hundred percent prepared for it.

Lark’s stomach grumbled loudly.

“I took the meat out of the fridge,” Rosethorn said. “But it was only about ten minutes ago.”

“Thank you,” said Lark, hugging her tight. Rosethorn turned her head and Lark kissed her once, twice, then stood up and went to make dinner. Rosethorn closed the computer and followed after her.

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

“Her name is Daja Kisubo,” Niko said. “She and her family were on the plane that crashed over the Blue Mountains but only she survived. She says no-one will want her back at home in Ireland, so she’ll have to go into foster care here.”

Lark’s heart went out to this girl, and the unimaginable situation she found herself in. “The poor girl,” she managed to say. “How is she?”

“She’s very quiet,” said Niko. “Polite and careful. She’s keeping very much to herself.”

Lark swallowed thickly and sat down at the kitchen table. Niko’s mythical “two or three” children were all of a sudden very real.

“Is Rosethorn around?”

“No, she’s out consulting in King Valley.”

“I’ve told Daja she can talk with you on the phone for a moment, to get to know you a little. Will now do?”

It was late afternoon, but Rosethorn might not be back for hours. They loved her in the wineries and kept her there as long as they possibly could every time she went down there.

“Yes, please, put her on.”

“Alright. Hold on a moment.”

Lark heard a few muffled words spoken away from the phone. She blinked quickly and collected herself. It started now.

The voice coming out of the phone was soft and cautious. “Hello?”

“Hello, Daja,” said Lark. “I’m Lark, how are you?”

“Oh, okay. How are you?”

“I’m good, thank you … I’m very sorry for your loss, Daja.”

“Thank you.” The girl spoke steadily, if not loudly. “And thank you for taking me in. I’m very grateful.”

“It’s our pleasure, dear, we’re very happy to help you.”

Daja acknowledged that with a soft indistinct noise.

“Is there anything you’d like us to have here for you, when you arrive?” Lark asked. “Any food, or anything particular you need?”

“No, thank you. I don’t need anything special.”

“If there’s anything at all, you can let me know or you let Niko know, will you please?”

“Yes, sure.” 

There was a short pause. Not much had been said, but Lark suspected that was enough conversation for Daja. As first contact, it had gone about as well as one could expect. Lark would love to talk with the girl some more, but not in a one-sided, forced conversation.

“Would you like Niko back now?” Daja asked.

“Is there anything you’d like to ask?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Alright. Well we’re looking forward very much to meeting you, Daja. Take care.”

“Take care,” Daja returned.

“Okay, so, we’re looking at about a week until everything’s sorted,” Niko said. “I’ve got to go now, but I’m contactable. I’ll email you later on with some more information. Cheerio.”

~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~o~

Five days before Daja was due to arrive Rosethorn was on her way out for the morning watering when the phone rang right as she passed through the kitchen. 

Rosethorn rarely answered her own mobile phone, let alone the landline - but Lark had still been sound asleep when Rosethorn had gotten out of bed, so for her sake Rosethorn reached over and quickly lifted it to her ear. 

She was about to snap into the phone – it wasn’t even five thirty yet! – but she remembered foster children, and best behaviour and instead of “ _Yes_?” she softened her voice and said, “Hello?”

It could be that Daja girl, after all.

“Can you take in a kid today?” Niko said.

All that effort and self-control, and it was just Niko. “Good morning to you too,” Rosethorn said frostily.

“Yes, certainly lecture me on manners, Rosethorn, thank you,” Niko replied. “I absolutely have time for this.”

“We’re ready,” Rosethorn told him. “Why the rush?”

“He’s, ah — this boy might be in trouble with the police, so the quicker I can get him out of there and officially somewhere else the better. Signs all point to this morning.”

“The police,” Rosethorn said steadily. 

“He’s only young,” Niko said. “It’s nothing serious. I promise.”

“We’ll be here.” Rosethorn assured him.

“Thank you. Goodbye.”

Rosethorn went out into the garden. She watered the vegetable garden, then walked out and checked on all the natives. When they were all taken care of and Rosethorn had settled in to the news she went inside to wake Lark.

They spent the morning together, as close to each other as they could manage. They drove into town to stock up on food and boys’ clothes, as well as picking up a few toys and games. Then they put the final touches on the front bedroom; one of the upstairs rooms was already assigned to Daja, and Rosethorn thought the two children should have some distance between them.

Around lunchtime Niko called again, and within half an hour Lark was setting off on the long drive to Melbourne. Rosethorn stood on the front lawn and waved her off. 

She’d have seven hours to herself, at a guess, before there would be a kid in the house – a young mage who had just been arrested, apparently, for breaking and entering. There might not be much in the way of peace and quiet at home for quite some time.

Rosethorn didn’t mind. She was ready.


End file.
